It was the spring of 1952 on a warm Saturday morning in New York City, and Lower Manhattan was swarming with the nouveau riche, flaunting their postwar prosperity. Heavy 4-door sedans clogged the streets. Pedestrians strolled across unmarked crosswalks, a parade of mutely colored polyester suits and nylon dresses. The old rich showered disdain over them from the windows of penthouses and rooftop eyries, but the common people were ignorant and unaffected by the resentment of movers and shakers. Despite the ever present atmosphere of engine exhaust, the city felt clean. Brick facades were well-washed. Cars were waxed and glossy. Paint shone like candy shells. It was desperately happy.
A yellow and red taxi stopped outside the Permanent Mission of the USSR to the UN, two blocks east of Central Park. There was a delay reaching the curb. Park East Synagogue was finishing up its Shabbat services on the far side of Hunter College, and Orthodox Jews were spreading out along 67th, Lexington, and Park to meet with their gentile drivers. The words on their lips were “atomic” and “nuclear.” Attendance was at a record high, and every good family was doing their part to hasten the World to Come.
Two hurried men hopped out in the middle of Park Avenue. One was a notably tall, lightly-bearded, self-described Asian gentleman with short hair, a fine black bowler, and an exquisitely pressed navy blue jacket. He grinned broadly at the chaos and hooked his thumbs under his lapels. The other man was a European, bald with high cheek-bones over a clean-shaven face. He projected a tight, compact energy like that of a wrestler.
The cabbie complained about the fare, but the European only laughed at the pettiness of it all and passed a second bill from his wallet through the driver side window.
The sedan stuck behind the cab beeped its chintzy little horn, but the taller man was unmoved, and he remained relaxed as if the rude noise was as sweet as a songbird.
The European hotfooted it around the back of the cab, gently tapping the Asian on the shoulder as he passed. “Out of the street,” he cried.
“Get off the road!” added the driver of the car behind them. He was leaning out the window, an obvious target for a rude gesture.
The Asian man obliged him with a finger.
The European waved his friend over. “Come on, damn it. We’re late.”
“I’m coming,” the Asian man said, walking out of the street about as slowly as possible. He paused and cast the irate driver one last smile before mounting the curb.
“Wonderful first impression,” the European groused. “You know the Soviets are watching.”
The Asian man wandered onto the sidewalk, ignoring his friend’s idle discipline. A Jewish child was standing beside his mother, staring at him like he was something out of a zoo. A little two-tone leather bag dangled from the child’s fist.
“Hello,” the Asian said to the kid.
“Can I help you?” asked the child’s mother. She was young and serious, commanding and wealthy. She wore a real silk blouse with ruffled shoulders.
“Is that a bag of marbles?” he asked the child.
The kid nodded very slowly and lifted the bag towards the Asian, unsure.
The man reached for his wallet. “Five dollars for it?”
“No sir!” the mother snapped, pulling her child around behind her with an arm.
The European interrupted the exchange physically, standing face-to-face in front of his friend. “Marbles later. Soviets now.” After delivering that command, he whirled about to smile at the young mother. She was sharp and pretty like a glass flower. “My apologies. He finds the strangest ways to bother beautiful women.”
“It’s a good day for work,” said the Asian, his thick eyebrows rising above his grin.
“It is,” the European agreed, lingering only long enough to see the mother’s flattered smile.
They marched up to the portico of the Soviet mission, passing between two ionic columns in the shade of a small balcony, and the European keyed an intercom set beside a locked door covered in decorative iron gratings. At ground level, the facade was all white limestone, though every floor above was made of the same red-brown brick as every other turn of the century building in this part of Manhattan.
To either side of the portico, wrought iron fences launched out and sharply turned, tracing the exterior to separate a diminutive lawn from the surrounding sidewalks. Beyond a few trees, this grassy gap wasn’t much for decoration, but the Soviets had kept it in place as a paranoid buffer between the walk and the building. Flag poles struck out diagonally from the second story, flying the large red flags of the USSR. A light breeze swept up the street, making them snap low and soft like someone was unfolding sheets to make a bed.
“This looks like a nice place,” the Asian said.
“Quiet now,” the European said.
“I’m a house mouse.”
The European couldn’t help but smile. “Not a church mouse?”
“The Christians wouldn’t have me.”
The intercom crackled to life. “Name?” asked a man with a mild Russian accent.
The European replied promptly, “Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. My associate should be on your appointments as the Zombie.”
There was an audible shuffling of papers. “Zombie? Yes, one second.” There were a few more clicks on the intercom system before the voice returned, confused. “I’ve been told to ask you to leave your weapon outside?”
“He’s not my weapon,” said Baron d’Holbach, “and he’s non-negotiable. Tell your boss that you couldn’t keep him out anyways. That’s not a threat, just a fact.” He looked at the Zombie, who shrugged. This happened sometimes, but the Baron was experienced at handling the mix of fear and rumor that preceded the Zombie’s arrival at a secure location. He pressed the intercom again. “Ask Viktor Denisov and Andrey Malik. They expected us ten minutes ago.”
There were another couple of clicks from the internal switchboard. The guard would be talking with Denisov for a few seconds.
Then a final click. “Welcome to the Mission,” the voice said.
There was a buzz and the snick of an electronic lock, and a uniformed security guard opened the front door to let them in.
“After you,” the Baron said, gesturing to his friend.
“Of course.” The Zombie grinned and stepped forward. “Safety first.”
They followed the guard into a lavish anteroom with wood-paneled walls and checkered granite flooring. The door hissed on pneumatic hinges and shut behind them with a heavy whuff of chilled air. They were led past a hardwood security desk, where a couple of other men in uniform were taking turns watching a bank of heavy CCTVs and reading magazines and newspapers printed in Cyrillic. They glanced up expectantly at the leading security guard. Pat these men down? Give them name tags?
The guard shook his head and guided them out of the anteroom, around a corner, and into a broad hall, where a narrow old-century elevator was nestled into an alcove. The security guard pressed the call button, then turned to frown at his unusual guests.
The Baron waited calmly while proper security measures were waived on his reputation. The Zombie rocked impatiently on his heels and smiled at whatever cameras he could find and the places where they might be hidden. The door finally opened with a mechanical bell.
They all stepped in the elevator—a cramped vehicle likely meant for one man and his servant-operator. With only centimeters between the guard and the Zombie, the guard’s frown deepened.
“I have a weapon on me,” the Zombie remarked as the doors were beginning to close, with all the gravitas one would use to comment on the weather.
To his credit, the man froze but did not otherwise panic.
“Don’t worry,” the Baron assured the guard. “If he wanted to stab you, he wouldn’t have said anything. Really.”
The Zombie pulled a closed penny knife. “Want to see a trick?”
Baron d’Holbach looked sidelong at the Zombie. “The question is, do you want this job?”
“Damn.” The Zombie pocketed the blade. “I do.”
The Baron smiled at the guard. “Thought so.”
The elevator opened on the fourth floor, all wood-paneled walls and hardwood floors, and Denisov and Malik were already waiting by a secretary’s desk with serious looks on their faces and nobody else in sight. The Baron and Zombie stepped forward to meet their guests. The security guard remained in the elevator.
“Baron d’Holbach,” Denisov said curtly. He was a middle-aged man, broad-faced and craggy, with silver hair slicked back in a Stalinist pompadour. He so perfectly fit the mold of the Russian politician that the Baron would’ve pegged him as a diehard Bolshevik, if not for the prominently displayed ikons on his neck and waist. There was an iron amulet of a reclined woman and a small net bag hooked to his belt. It held a single golden apple.
He was carrying two of the Orthodox cult’s “nuclear options.”
“Can you throw that indoors?” the Baron asked.
There was an instant when Malik’s face screwed up with disdain, but it quickly passed. “We’re precautious, not foolish,” he said. He was young, severe, and bore a thin mustache trimmed with almost mechanical precision. It was meant to be masculine, but the dark hair only emphasized a mild pallor and the thinness of his lips on an already long, narrow face. Even when calm, he looked a little angry. The Baron immediately suspected that Malik was high on cocaine, a habit picked up from American politicians with 20-hour workdays.
“Only an idiot would take offense,” the Baron said, testing the man’s attitude.
Malik snorted derisively.
Denisov smirked. “You’re well-versed, Baron.”
“I’ve had an Apple thrown at me,” the Baron replied. He offered his hand to Denisov, who shook it generously. “I understand though. Precaution.”
“Thank you. Yakov, we’ll take them from here.”
The guard punched a button and descended with the elevator.
“I’ll be honest,” Malik said to the Baron, his tone suggesting he was going to be more hateful than anything. “I don’t have confidence in your discretion. Half of New York will know you were here today, and you have no control over your…” He sneered at the Zombie.
The Zombie looked away and started circling around the room with his eyes on the ceiling, as if the conversation didn’t concern him in the least.
“Tammany Hall already knows,” the Baron said, referring to the New York cult. “We needed a letter of passage before we could check in at the temple. Didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Denisov waved a hand dismissively. “Your objection is noted,” he said to Malik, “but this is my decision. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll come to my office, time waits for no one, and there’s a man missing.”
The Zombie was already by the hall, so he ambled along in front of Denisov until they reached an open door to a corner office. The shaded windows let in more than enough light to see by, but the room was otherwise unlit and dim, and it smelled like stale cigarettes. Denisov settled down behind his desk and indicated a plush chair for the Baron.
He accepted it with a smile, sitting across from the Russian. Both Malik and the Zombie remained standing just behind him.
Denisov nudged an ashtray towards the Baron. “Do you smoke?”
“Only cigars,” the Baron answered, “I can’t stand the taste of burnt paper.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. And you, Zombie?”
The Zombie held out a hand. “Can I eat one?”
Denisov pulled out a pack from a desk drawer and offered one. The Zombie took it, sniffed it loudly, and popped the whole thing in his mouth like it was candy.
Malik scoffed audibly. “Foul.”
Denisov lit his own cigarette with a paper matchbook. “Baron d’Holbach,” he said after his opening draw, “We need a neutral party. One of our best agents went missing two days ago.” As he spoke, the air puffed out of him in staccato bursts like a smoke signal. His punctuation was a complete exhalation. “We suspect foul play.”
The Baron had been called for this kind of job before, but generally the client wasn’t so coy with the details. This was the first he’d heard of it. “From who,” he asked, “and why?”
Denisov sniffed. “I don’t know, and I couldn’t tell you why. That’s why we need someone we can trust, someone without outside interests.”
“This sounds like work for secular police.”
Denisov nodded and took another draw on his cigarette. “Unfortunately, there are circumstances to consider.” He glanced at Malik, as if looking for permission, but then he steeled himself visibly and pushed onwards. “Do you know the name Janos Nagy?”
“The assassin!” the Zombie said happily, his mouth still full of tobacco, paper, and filter-foam.
“Is this a trick question?” the Baron asked.
“He was in service to the Soviet cause since the February Revolution,” Malik said sharply. 1917, the first of two revolutions in Russia. “He was a soldier.”
The Zombie swallowed his cigarette mash and laughed. “We know him. He killed Nazis before they were called Nazis. Gods—why wouldn’t we know him?”
The Baron not only knew Nagy, but also knew why Nagy shouldn’t have had anything to do with the United States of America. “You’re implying a Russian assassin is in New York City.” It was more of an accusation than a statement. When Denisov didn’t respond, he said louder, “The cultic assassin, in Langley’s backyard!”
“You’re well aware of the gravity of the situation…” Denisov began.
Malik spoke over him, “We should be taking care of this ourselves.”
“Quiet!” Denisov snapped at Malik. “Someone must’ve recognized and killed him, Baron.”
“How do you know?”
“His loyalty is beyond question—”
“How do you know someone killed him?” Baron d’Holbach pressed.
Denisov snubbed out his half-finished cigarette and rubbed his forehead with a thumb. “During World War II, we fed him the Cat o’ Nine Lives.”
“The Cat!” The Zombie was ecstatic.
The Russian covered his brow with a hand. “He had six lives left when we dropped him off at the harbor. He didn’t meet six accidents in one evening.”
Denisov was right, of course. If Nagy hadn’t returned, it had to be murder, plain and simple, but Nagy wasn’t the kind of man that could be killed by just anyone.
“You want the Cat back,” the Baron said incredulously. He left out—in the middle of New York, in Langley’s shadow, out of the hands of assassin-killers. This job was absurd.
“Yes, and I want justice for Nagy.”
The Baron stared at Denisov with awe. “We’re not hitmen. We only kill in self-defense.”
“I’m not asking for you to sic the Zombie on Brooklyn.” Denisov straightened in his chair. “I want a minimal body count. Once we know who the murderer is—assuming the Cat is in our hands—we won’t even have to take action. Diplomatic pressure will do the job. At worst, we ask New York to police their vassals. It’s as easy as that.”
“Easy is a bad choice of words.” Malik crossed his thin arms. “Nothing here is easy. If you aren’t ready for the work, you should leave. We’ve no time for half-measures.”
The Baron couldn’t tell if Malik actually wanted him to leave or if he was trying to goad him into defending his reputation as a cultic mercenary. “It’s not a question of strength or resources,” the Baron explained. “Information and recovery are tricky. We might fail, and I want some guarantees of payment before I go chasing after dead men.”
“I’ll pay a bonus for starting today,” Denisov said promptly. “Fifty-percent.”
“On top of the price we discussed over the phone?” the Baron asked.
“Of course. It’s a generous offer.” Denisov tugged on a cigarette in his pack, then thought better of starting to smoke another and set the pack down. “More than enough.”
The Baron glanced at the Zombie, who grinned encouragingly. The Cat o’ Nine Lives and a killer—this was the kind of entertainment that the Zombie lived for, and it was the kind of challenge that he encouraged the Baron to take. “The price is adequate,” d’Holbach agreed, “but there are also big risks hiding the Cat from other cults. We could lose our reputation for neutrality.”
“Depending on the circumstances…” Denisov said. “Maybe.”
“Those risks are yours alone,” Malik said. “We offer money, not guarantees.”
Denisov glared at his hands. Flexed his fingers. Baron d’Holbach studied him closely. The division between Denisov and Malik was difficult to gauge but it was clearly there; Denisov wanted outside help. He didn’t want Soviet footprints in American soil or Soviet fingerprints on American throats. Malik seemed to believe he could operate with impunity in foreign territory—a dangerous attitude. There was value in accepting the job simply to discourage Malik from running an operation.
“I know you’re a responsible man,” the Baron said to Denisov. “If you’ll do your best to protect our reputation as independent agents, we’re your men.”
Denisov answered d’Holbach before Malik could respond. “Of course, we’ll exercise discretion at all times. Do we have a deal?”
The Zombie clenched and unclenched his fists rapidly. He was too excited for anyone’s good, but he was keeping it to himself. This was the Baron’s negotiation, and he knew it.
“One more question,” the Baron said, “how much can you tell us about Nagy’s mission?”
“Very little except that he was last seen in Brooklyn on Thursday.”
“That’s all you know?”
“That’s all I know,” the man said regretfully. “We can’t even call for his ghost in a temple. New York and Langley would both hear about it within a day.”
Baron d’Holbach found that to be suspiciously ignorant, but Denisov seemed earnest. “If you learn anything more, will you drop us a message?”
Denisov played with the inner wrapper of the cigarette pack, tugging on the paper idly. “Without question,” he said after a few seconds. “Where are you staying?”
“The Biltmore on 43rd and Madison. Under my false name.”
There was a crinkle of paper while Denisov closed and pocketed the pack. “It’s settled then.” He offered a hand to the Baron. “Your assistance is a tremendous relief.”
They shook, and the Baron felt a thin piece of paper folded in Denisov’s palm. The Russian flexed gently to deposit the note and released the shake smoothly.
The Baron dropped his hand below the desk and slipped the paper in his pocket. “We’ll begin immediately.”
Malik grunted. “Fine, I’ll see you out.”
“Nagy,” the Zombie whispered to himself with glee.
Malik walked out the door, and the Baron quickly stood to follow. The Zombie trailed close behind them, laughing quietly. Denisov closed his office door.
Their footsteps pattered out into the silent hall of an empty floor. Nobody else was around to witness the deal or prepare arrangements. It occurred to the Baron that for the moment, they might be the only four people in the world who knew exactly what work had been accepted. It was unusual to see back room deals made in actual back rooms.
The course of history usually turned on violence and speech. Decisions were made before hundreds of eyes, and even the most secret plots were arranged with the implicit knowledge and approval of vast and powerful organizations. Rarely did one or two men craft the fate of nations. Even rarer did those men pass their labor to hired mercenaries.
In secret, in an empty place, the Baron and Zombie had accepted responsibility for something larger than themselves. The exact scale and shape of their role wasn’t visible, but if Nagy and the Cat were involved, their influence would be larger than it had any right to be.
The Baron couldn’t yet look at the note in his pocket, but he knew the truth in his bones. Bigger stakes would soon reveal themselves, and this job would matter. Great events would begin here and now—on a fine Saturday in New York City.
Author’s Note:
We’ve met our well-dressed heroes!
As always, thank you to my beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
